


Gunpowder, Gelatine

by Whisky (whiskyrunner)



Series: Rough Trade [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Breathplay, Depression, Homophobia, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-28
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2018-01-10 08:30:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1157411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskyrunner/pseuds/Whisky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A concurrent companion piece to Rough Trade, from Eames' POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gunpowder, Gelatine

_December_

Eames is leaving Yusuf's place when he spots Arthur across the street, accompanied by a petite brunette. How about that—it's a small island after all.

He doesn't mean to follow them. It just happens that they're heading downtown, the same direction as him, and eventually he walks right past his subway stop and slips across the street to keep them in sight. What is Arthur doing with her? It's a Monday night. And that's definitely Arthur. Straitlaced, besuited Arthur, who last Thursday was face-down and naked in Eames' bed, groaning through his teeth while Eames dug bruising marks into his hips and fucked him.

Eames wonders if the bruises are still there, wrapped up under Arthur's lovely clothes.

They go into a restaurant. It's a nice place, sort of a bistro, with a brunch section on the menu, but there's a bar at one end. Eames takes a seat there at the bar, in an ideal position: Arthur, seated at a little candle-lit table behind him, has his back to Eames. Eames orders a drink and settles in. He's got nothing better to do tonight.

He soon deduces that this is a first date, based on the conversation. The brunette's name is Ariadne and she seems sweet. She's Canadian, is fresh out of business school, and has two cats at home. She's fascinated by Arthur and keeps peppering him with questions about his job. Clever girl, Eames thinks. Brand-new to Manhattan and already networking.

Arthur, in turn, is ... not Arthur. At least, he's not the caustic, hypertense Arthur that Eames has known for about six weeks now. There's a smile evident in his voice. He answers her questions patiently and listens when she talks about herself. He's quiet and polite and—it hits Eames like a blow to the head— _himself_. This is Arthur when he's not brimming with self-hate. This is the persona he takes to work and drags home and this is the mental place he's in when he watches television and brushes his teeth and does other mundane Arthur things. This is Arthur, talking to this girl, telling her about his Los Angeles upbringing and how he taught his little brother to surf, and when he was fifteen he hit his head so badly on a submerged rock that he cracked his skull and quit surfing for good while his brother went on to do it competitively and give lessons to tourists in Australia on top of his day job. He half laughs about it, like he thinks his brother is stupid for doing this after Arthur's accident, but there's something of a quiet admiration there that Eames has never heard before. Ariadne says what Eames is thinking: that she can't picture Arthur on a surfboard.

Arthur is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I found more important things to do.”

 _Like what?_ Eames wants to say. But Ariadne doesn't ask.

Toward the end of the meal, Ariadne says, “Do you want to go back to my place? I'll show you what I mean about the heater, maybe you can do something,” and Eames can't listen to any more of this. He settles his tab and leaves through the side door onto the street corner, where he lights a cigarette and reflects on what he's learned.

He hears Arthur's voice several minutes later. They've left the restaurant. They're coming closer; Eames resolutely doesn't move. Then he hears Arthur say, “You catch a cab, I'll just be a second.”

And then he hears, “Eames.”

Eames knows why he's doing this. It's so that he can control the situation. Otherwise, Eames might walk up to him and that would be more than Arthur can handle, in front of his date; so he's acting, playing at being friendly so that he can keep Eames away. Eames turns to him, looks him up and down slowly.

“On a date?” he says.

Arthur glances back at Ariadne to make sure she's out of earshot. He turns back to Eames, aloof. “That's not really your business.”

“Since I've been fucking you for over a month now, I'd say it's my business,” says Eames. “And hers, too.”

Arthur takes a step back, eyes narrowing. “Are you—jealous?”

“Not at all.” Eames drags in a lungful of smoke, and smiles expansively. “Have a nice date, Arthur. I hope you have lots and lots of sex. And I hope she doesn't mind when you start calling out my name in bed.”

Arthur snaps at this. All at once he's far too close, grabbing the front of Eames' coat so that he can't escape. They're just about of a height, so that Arthur can glare directly into Eames' eyes from just a couple inches away.

“Get this through your fucking head,” he enunciates slowly and softly, so that nobody else can hear. “You and me? Are _nothing_.”

He releases Eames' coat and plucks the cigarette out of his slack mouth, then flicks it over Eames' shoulder and into the slushy gutter.

“See you on Thursday, Eames,” he says coldly, and with that, he turns and walks back to Ariadne. Eames just stands there, watches them get into a cab and disappear.

 

&  
On Thursday, Eames has Arthur naked and reverse-straddling his lap in short time. He has no objection to fucking Arthur from behind, as it means he gets to watch himself sink into Arthur's tight clenching hole. He can't see as well from this angle, though, and he's only sunk in halfway before he pulls out again, ignoring Arthur's choked sound of need, and urges him up onto his knees. Arthur goes blindly. His arms are stretched in front of him, palms splayed against the wall.

“That's better,” Eames says, pulling Arthur's cheeks apart and pushing the head of his cock back in. Arthur grunts on the long relentless slide in, gritting out a little _ah, fuck_ , probably clenching his eyes shut and trying to pretend he's anywhere other than Eames' bed, legs spread over Eames' thighs, being fucked in the ass by another man.

Eames reaches up impatiently and shoves two fingers into Arthur's mouth, dragging them over his tongue, wanting to bring him back to reality. Arthur bites, disgusted, trying to get rid of Eames' fingers, but he sags and moans when Eames stops taking it slow and starts snapping his hips hard.

His fingers spit-slick, Eames removes them and brings them to the space where he and Arthur are joined. Without breaking stride, he traces Arthur's stretched hole, rubbing, hinting at the threat of dipping inside.

“Feel that,” he says roughly, more throatily than he means to. “Where I'm fucking you. Feel it, Arthur?”

“ _Fuck._ ” Arthur's small voice cracks weakly.

“Do you feel where I'm fucking you with my cock? You should; you love it.” He leans down and bites Arthur's neck hard, making Arthur writhe under him in an effort to get away from his teeth. Eames shifts his knees, changing the angle, and starts pounding in even harder, as hard as he can. He wants to hurt Arthur. He wants to hurt _everything_ , and here Arthur is, asking to be hurt. Eames hates him, hates everything about him, hates how effortlessly good-looking he is and the nice clothes he wears and the no-doubt luxurious flat he owns and the way he looks down on Eames as if these things somehow make him _better._

 _You queer piece of shit_ , Eames thinks heatedly, and when Arthur's shoulders flinch as if a lash has fallen across them, he realizes he said it out loud. He falters.

“Don't stop,” Arthur grates out, hating him right back, his voice low and sex-rough.

He shoves right back when Eames starts fucking him again, pushes with his shoulders, angry, like it's a fight, until Eames has to hold him down, cage him in completely with his body so that Arthur can't squirm away.

“Just take it,” Eames pants, his chest flat to Arthur's back so he can feel Arthur's every quivering muscle, chin almost resting on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur twists his head aside. “Did you fuck that pretty girl the other night like this, Arthur?”

“Fuck you,” Arthur spits out.

“Did you think about me while you did it?” Eames' voice, already low and raspy, goes even lower. He wraps one arm around Arthur's waist and palms his cock, unsurprised to find it straining up against Arthur's belly. Arthur makes a wheezing, snarling sound, tries to buck him off again, but has to melt into the touch when he can't. “I've got you,” Eames says.

Arthur tilts his head even further so that Eames can see no part of his face, and chokes out something that sounds like _hate you_.

“Did you think about this while you were fucking her?” Eames demands. “When you were inside her, did you think about how much you love it when I'm inside you? You had to, didn't you? This is the only thing that gets you hot anymore, being fucked like this. Like you're worthless. I'm the only one who can give this to you.”

“I fucking hate you,” Arthur forces out harshly, louder this time.

“Is that right,” Eames says, and he flicks his wrist and drags Arthur's orgasm out of him. Arthur's spine snaps taut as a bow, the whole length of his body trembling against Eames, short staccato noises being wrenched out of him loudly as if Eames is killing him. Maybe he is.

He sags into Eames' arm after that, gasping and writhing when Eames goes on stroking him, until Eames comes, too, stars bursting in front of his eyes. It's the best sex of his life, this; it's mad and it's violent and he's never had anything like it. He'd never come so hard in his life till he met Arthur and learned the thrill of pinning his quarry down and fucking like animals.

But it's over now, they're both coming back down, easing apart, shaken and bruised and reeling at whatever-the-hell they just did. Arthur sinks delicately down onto the mattress and Eames just dumps face-first at his side, lacking the energy to even roll over or move out of the wet spot. There's never been an afterglow like this, he thinks. If he can pretend Arthur isn't here, it's blissful.

Usually Arthur catches his breath, restores his basic faculties, and leaves as fast as he can. This time, when they can both breathe again like they haven't just run a marathon, Arthur tilts his head and looks across at Eames.

“I didn't, you know,” he says quietly.

Eames looks at him. His eyes are wet, his hair dishevelled, his cheeks still splotchily flushed. He looks fucked.

“You didn't what?”

“Fuck her,” says Arthur. “We didn't have sex.”

Eames reaches over and pushes a strand of hair off of Arthur's face. It's a small gesture that makes Arthur look as lost and bewildered as a child.

&  
 _March_  


Eames surprises Arthur one Saturday morning by showing up on his doorstep. Arthur looks almost criminally adorable in his rumpled pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, hair all damp and askew, when he answers Eames' knock. He squints accusingly.

“It's ten o'clock.”

“I know,” says Eames.

“I'm not—” He stops, glancing around the hallway as if he thinks his neighbours will have their doors ajar, ears pressed eagerly to the cracks so they can hear. He lowers his voice. “I'm not letting you fuck me at ten o'clock. I just showered.”

“I'm not here for that.”

Arthur looks deeply suspicious. He lets Eames in, though.

“You didn't text,” he says, folding his arms over his chest accusingly when the door is shut. He seems a touch more relaxed now, though, safe and hidden in his apartment. “What if I'd had someone over?”

“Obviously,” says Eames, “I'd have torn your clothes off and started shagging you on the threshold.”

A smile tugs at Arthur's lips. “Obviously,” he says dryly.

Now that they're alone, Eames is free to lean in and press a kiss to Arthur's mouth. He feels Arthur drop his hands to his sides; then he raises them to Eames' face and leans into the kiss. He tastes of bitter coffee.

“Did you sleep?” Eames asks, drawing back.

“A little,” says Arthur, and now Eames can see the dark circles under his eyes, belying their brightness. “Better than nothing.” He clears his throat. “We can—if you want to fuck, I mean. I don't have plans.”

Eames can't help but smile. “That's very sporting of you, Arthur, but actually I wanted to ask if you'd like to go for a walk with me.”

It's comical, how confused this request seems to leave Arthur. “A walk?”

“Yes, a walk. In Central Park. It's really warm and sunny today, it's lovely.”

“I ...” Arthur looks as though he'd rather Eames just fuck him. “We agreed. This doesn't—”

“Leave the apartment,” Eames says impatiently, “I know. I'm not asking you to start making out with me in public, Arthur. It's just a walk.”

Arthur sighs, picking distractedly at his shirt. “I guess I have to change,” he says finally.

Eames smiles fondly again. “Yes.”

He changes into neatly-pressed slacks and a red turtleneck to go under his double-breasted black coat. All of Arthur's outfits look impeccably nice on him, but Eames likes his wrinkled, faded sleep-clothes best. He's not sure Arthur even owns a pair of jeans.

“Do we have to walk to the park?” Arthur asks, when they're on the sidewalk outside.

Eames grins. “Walking's good for you.”

“Inhaling smog and car exhaust is good for me?” Arthur says skeptically, but he doesn't try to flag a cab.

Eames thinks Arthur's opinion of New York is unfair. Certainly when he, Eames, had first arrived in the city, he had expected soot and pigeons to line every street. But it's trees, not trash, that adorn every sidewalk; in the summer there are flowerbeds outside the buildings rather than dumpsters, and he has yet to meet a single cockroach. There are some inoffensive little pillbug-like insects he shares his tiny flat with, but no roaches. And though he's spied a couple of rats, he's never seen one claw its way out of a toilet. With all its old architecture and fascinating inhabitants, Eames truly does think New York is beautiful.

Arthur glares at the city as if it's personally offended him. He's a typical New Yorker, charging right onto the street even when the 'Don't Walk' sign is lit up, stopping several feet away from the curb and waiting there impatiently while cars whip past him mere inches away, or crossing without even a glance in either direction when there is no traffic. Eames has to hurry to keep up. Noticing, Arthur slows down just a bit.

This is the inspiration for a conversation about what the mark of a true New Yorker is. Eames thinks it's how readily one plunges into traffic regardless of what the light says; Arthur disagrees and says scornfully that even tourists jaywalk; the true mark is how un-self-consciously one eats alone in a restaurant, and for bonus points, whether they flinch when a bird flies at them. This last one makes Eames laugh, because it's true. Arthur doesn't budge when pigeons flap past his face and he's as New York as it gets—even if he wasn't born here.

It all helps to prove Eames' theory correct: The thing about Arthur is that on his territory he's cagey and guarded, and on Eames' he's defensive and prickly. Sometimes, when he forgets where he is, he's none of those things. Eames wants to get him on neutral ground, and so far it's working. Arthur is relaxing. Only strangers walk past them, and none of them spare a glance for two men walking side by side.

It isn't long before they reach Central Park West, the street that runs parallel to the park, and they stroll alongside the fence with bare trees and sheer rocks dominating the view on one side and yellow taxis streaming past on the other. It's one of the funny little juxtapositions that Eames so loves about New York. When they walk past 85th St., he points to one of the buildings across the street from them.

“My older sister lives there.”

“Really?” Arthur looks intrigued. He twists around to look at the building. “What does she do?”

“She's an actress. Has a steady gig on a soap opera.” Eames lived with her for awhile when he'd first landed in New York, but as big as her apartment is, it hadn't worked. Her boyfriend had recently moved in, and Eames had been ruining the whole honeymoon phase with his depression and drugs and bad temper. Amy's got a lot of patience when it comes to him, but only to a point.

Arthur is still looking at the building, probably calculating how much rent would cost, and something compels Eames to say, “That's all you respect, isn't it? How much money a person makes?”

Arthur turns his head from the building to look at Eames. “No,” he says.

“Right,” Eames scoffs quietly.

Arthur wipes his face of emotion and stares coolly ahead. It was a stupid thing to say and Eames is already wishing he'd just kept it to himself, but sometimes he really hates Arthur's attitude about money. If Eames were a computer programmer making six figures every year, then, he thinks, maybe Arthur wouldn't be so hesitant to be seen with him. Even if he finds a full-time job, he's never going to make a lot of money. He knows and accepts that. Some part of Arthur will always look down on him. It would make anyone resentful.

He wisely shuts up, but the air between them is chilly until they reach an entrance and turn into the park. It seems everyone is taking advantage of the warm weather: Dog-walkers stroll past them; tourists consult maps; vendors sell deep-fried peanuts (Arthur regards these with grave suspicion). Eames tells him to wait and jogs over to one of the vendors. He returns with two salted pretzels and lemonades.

“Pretzels?” says Arthur, taking his gingerly.

“I thought we'd make a picnic of it,” says Eames.

“Some picnic.” But Arthur tears a small bite off of his and chews it slowly. It doesn't seem to offend him too badly, because he takes another nibble. Arthur's probably never bought food from a street vendor in his life. Eames grins.

“Look at you, slumming it like us common folk.”

Arthur swallows his little bite of pretzel and says, “I know you think of me as some kind of Little Lord Fauntleroy, but that isn't actually the case.”

“I'm just teasing you, Arthur.”

“I know. You do it often enough.” Arthur squints when they walk past a grassy field full of people and their children, and mutters, “God, I hope my boss isn't out with his kids today.”

“So what if he is?” Eames asks. “What if he sees you?”

Arthur shrugs and looks away like he always does when this comes up. “I don't know. That's why it can't happen.”

“What,” Eames says impatiently, “he'd spot you and just assume you're out for a stroll with your male lover?”

“Yeah, because you really _look_ like my lawyer,” Arthur bites back. “And keep your voice down.”

“Why?” Eames says, louder. “Are you worried the strangers will judge you for being queer in public, Arthur?”

“Eames,” Arthur says warningly.

Eames suddenly turns, yanking Arthur around to face him, and crushes their mouths together. Arthur's mouth falls open slightly, reflexively, and Eames shoves his tongue in, clasping Arthur's neck with his free hand so he can't turn his head aside. It gives him a little thrill when Arthur just stands there and lets himself be kissed, wetly and messily, in front of all these people. The few other pedestrians on the path just walk around them without even slowing down, but a couple of teenage girls on a nearby bench yell, “ _Whoo!_ ” and someone wolf-whistles.

Eames finally lets go when he has to breathe. Arthur stands there, rooted to the spot, catching his breath. His whole body is rigid; his lips are an attractive red.

“Well?” Eames says, satisfied. “Nothing happened.”

He notices Arthur's shaking hands at about the same moment Arthur fixes him with a look so furiously cold it makes Eames' insides freeze for a second.

“Never,” Arthur says, with a quiet simmer to the words, “do that again.”

Neither of them move. Pedestrians continue to filter past them. Eames feel a twinge of misgiving and he waits, uncertainly, for Arthur to turn around and start walking home.

Instead, Arthur starts walking again. He wraps up the pretzel and shoves it into his coat pocket, and keeps his head down, but he doesn't say anything when Eames catches him up and falls into step beside him again.

“I can't believe you did that,” Arthur says in the same low voice when several minutes have gone by, not looking at him.

“I'm sorry,” says Eames quietly. And he is. However irrational he thinks Arthur's feelings are, it doesn't make them any less real. And what does he know, anyway? Maybe being found out really _would_ have calamitous consequences for Arthur's career. He doubts it, but he doesn't live in Arthur's world, after all. Arthur's the one who will have to deal with any repercussions. Just, sometimes—

Sometimes it just feels a bit too cramped for two people in Arthur's closet.

Arthur huffs out a short sigh, shaking his head. “Can we sit down somewhere?”

Eames leads him off the path, over a little hillock to a shaded area where they can't be seen. Arthur drops onto the grass gratefully, pulls out his pretzel and starts nibbling it again.

“Nice picnic,” he says, and Eames recognizes this as a tentative olive branch.

“I'm glad you think so.” Eames gives him one of the lemonades. Arthur eyes it mistrustfully and, with a frown, starts reading the ingredients. Eames chuckles. “I can tell you the ingredients, Arthur, it's all sugar and food dye.”

“That's what I thought,” Arthur says. He uncaps it and takes a sip, pulling a face and grousing, “Ugh. It's so sweet.” But he keeps drinking it.

Eames laughs again. “Have you even had anything to eat today?”

“I had a banana,” says Arthur defensively. “Bananas are good for you.”

“Not if you live off them and Chinese take-out.”

“Ugh,” Arthur says again, giving up on the lemonade. He lies down on his back and closes his eyes against the sun. Occasionally he lifts the pretzel and bites off a piece until it's gone; then he sighs and folds his hands on his stomach.

Eames smiles and starts eating his own pretzel, watching the section of path he can see from his vantage point. From here, one could almost forget they were in a city at all.

For a few minutes they're quiet; then Eames says “Hey,” an idea striking him. “We should go to the Natural History Museum. It's not far from here.”

Arthur doesn't answer. His brow has lost its little grumpy furrow; he looks at ease and relaxed in the grass. Eames snorts.

“Are you asleep already? I haven't even got your trousers off yet.”

It's a bit of a mean joke, a reference to the two-odd occasions when Arthur has fallen asleep during sex, but when he doesn't respond to that Eames realizes he actually has fallen asleep. He smiles. Good for Arthur. Uncapping his lemonade, he stretches out and gets comfy. He'll probably be sitting here for awhile.

It's only been about twenty minutes, however, when the peace is disrupted by a buzzing in Arthur's pocket. Arthur jumps awake like he's been shocked.

“What?” he says, looking around blearily. The phone buzzes again. Arthur's eyes widen and he grabs it quickly. “I have to, sorry,” he says to Eames; and to the phone, “What is it?”

And then, “Oh, fuck.”

And, “Are you kidding me?”

He gets to his feet, brushing dead grass off his trousers, and wanders away a short distance, so that Eames can't hear what he's saying but can hear the way his voice rises unhappily, and he's not stupid. He knows what it all means.

When Arthur comes back, phone dangling from his hand, Eames says, “You have to work.”

“Yeah.” Arthur rubs at his face, grinding his knuckles into the bridge of his nose. “Shit. I'm sorry.”

“Well, tell them to go fuck themselves,” Eames says, suddenly angry. “How much sleep have you gotten lately?”

Arthur just looks at him tiredly. “What's the fastest way out of here?”

“Come on,” Eames mutters, not bothering to argue anymore. Even if Arthur had the option of refusing to work, he wouldn't. He's like a manic Border collie. When he's overworked he's exhausted and only able to think about the next load of work; but when there's no work, he goes off his little head. Tomorrow, he'll be even more tired and grouchy—if he bothers to connect with Eames at all.

Eames leads him out of the park, and Arthur says a short “See you” and bounds off the curb to flag a taxi, heedless again of the cars that blow past him a foot away. One of them stops; he gets in and it drives off promptly.

 _Some picnic_ , Eames thinks sourly, kicking at a pebble. It disturbs a pigeon, which takes off and flaps directly for his face, making him flinch back. In that moment he's never felt so stupidly out of place and alone in New York.

&  
 _January_  


“Yusuf says you're seeing someone,” Amy says, almost crows it, in fact. Eames frowns. It's New Year's Day and his sister invited him over for a glass of wine; he didn't realize this would be an interrogation.

“Since when do you talk to Yusuf?”

“Facebook,” she says. “So?”

“So it's nothing,” says Eames. “He's an investment banker with a heap of baggage. I meet him once a week and we have excellent, no-strings-attached sex.”

“No strings attached?” His sister raises an eyebrow. Abruptly Eames loses patience.

“I'm not looking for a relationship.”

“I know you aren't.”

“He's the most closeted gay I've ever met in my life. He'd never let this become anything but sex.”

“I know,” says Amy. “That's what worries me. I don't know, but it sounds like this guy could hurt you.”

“He won't,” says Eames flatly. “I don't want anything from him. I don't want anything from _anyone_.”

“I know what you've been through,” Amy starts, carefully, and Eames snaps:

“No. You don't.”

Amy doesn't say anything for a minute. When she finally does speak, her voice is soft.

“I'm sorry about what happened with Henri.”

“I'm not.” The words sound jagged and callous, roughened in his throat. “I'm just sorry he fooled me for so long.”

“They're not all like that, you know,” Amy says gently. “There are a lot of gay guys in Manhattan. You could find somebody who'd be good for you.”

“Henri was good for me. Didn't stop him from fucking another man while I was at school. He didn't even _tell_ me—d'you know how I found out? I found his fucking HIV-positive test results. We were together for _seven years_.”

“I know,” Amy says again. “And I know you don't just get over something like that. But you can't run yourself into the ground trying to forget about it.”

“I'm fine,” Eames says bluntly. “You're a bit late to clean me up; Yusuf's done that already. I'm working again, even.”

“And you're having sex with some guy who hates you.”

“He asked me to fuck him without a condom,” Eames says impulsively. “He didn't even ask if I was clean. It made me crazy at first. I wondered if he was just stupid, but then I realized—he didn't want to know. He'd have thought that was perfect, probably, picking up some kind of disease from me. It would have been the perfect punishment for him. He's that self-destructive, he thinks he deserves HIV just for letting himself be with a man ...”

“You didn't do it, I hope,” says Amy.

“No,” Eames lies. Arthur had showed him his latest clean bill of health shortly after, though Eames hadn't asked, and they'd already done it anyway. Maybe Eames has a self-destructive streak, too. “I'm just saying—what if he tried that with the wrong guy?”

“Oh,” says Amy wryly, “I see.”

Her knowing tone irritates him. “See what?”

“You like him.”

“I can't stand him,” says Eames. “He's a nasty little weasel and he hates me. There's nothing to like.”

“And you like him anyway,” says Amy. “You see why I worry?”

Eames can't say what he thinks, which is that he only got into this because he was hurting and he needed to hurt someone else and Arthur was right there asking for it. He wanted to hurt Arthur and now, knowing how impossibly fucked-up he is, Eames just wants to— _help_ him. He lies to himself, says that's not why he's still doing this, still putting up with Arthur; but if he left, where would Arthur be in a year? Every now and then Arthur reveals just how vulnerable he is—or he lets himself slip and says something to make Eames think he could actually be likeable if he wanted to be—and Eames wants to guard him jealously, because there are men out there who'd eat Arthur up and spit him out in a heartbeat. Maybe Eames wanted to be that man at first, but it's not what Arthur deserves, even if he thinks it is. He sort of understands Arthur now. He refuses to partake in that fantasy anymore, that he's only around to punish Arthur for being attracted to him. If Arthur keeps coming back to him, Eames will keep him safe—for as long as he can keep this up, anyway.

All things considered, Amy is right to worry. It doesn't mean he appreciates it.

They both hear her boyfriend arrive home and Eames drains his wine glass and gets to his feet. “This is why Trisha's my favourite sister,” he tells her. Amy smiles.

“Just be careful,” she says.

But Eames is already being careful. After spending last year in a miserable, brokenhearted fog, he finally cares again.

He just can't admit it.

&  
 _April_  


He gets one over on Arthur once, and it's delicious.

Arthur's in Utah on business, not due back till the next day, and Eames takes shameless advantage of this to hang out in his apartment as much as possible. It's so much nicer and bigger and better-smelling than Eames' building. And the windows have actual views, versus Eames' single grubby pane which looks across a span of several feet to a wall of dirty brick. May as well not have a window at all.

He has a couple drinks with his sister and then, since he's on the Upper West Side anyway, he decides he may as well spend the last night at Arthur's place. He takes the train, and once at Arthur's place he has to punch in the code to open the wrought-iron gate, then unlock the front door with one of two keys, slip past the doorman (who knows him by sight now) and head up the elevator to the 24th floor, and at last unlock Arthur's door with the other key. He eases the door shut behind him quietly, because it's a heavy door and it's two o'clock in the morning. Then he realizes there's a light on in the living room.

He slips off his shoes noiselessly and creeps forward. He knows how to fight. He's prepared to defend Arthur's flat.

But curled up on the couch, with his back against the armrest and a laptop resting on his thighs, is Arthur himself. Eames pulls up short, watching him for a minute. Arthur, facing the far wall, doesn't appear to see him. He's got headphones on and, amazingly, a pair of jeans. Nice jeans, but jeans. He's chewing his lip, brow furrowed, and as Eames watches he smooths a hand down over his groin, pressing the heel of his palm down and taking in a slow breath.

Eames circles wide around him until he's at Arthur's back and able to look over his shoulder. It takes him a second to register that what he's seeing, on Arthur's computer screen, is gay porn. He presses a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing aloud, because this seems very funny with a few drinks in him. And it's definitely—two men, both very athletic-looking, one vigorously pounding the other's ass and giving it the occasional hard slap. It looks hard, anyway; Eames can't hear anything from Arthur's headphones.

He stands there for a couple minutes, unsure how to proceed. He could slip off to the bedroom and claim he'd been there all along. But probably Arthur's already dumped his luggage in there, and it would be much more fun to catch him _in flagrante delicto_. The thing is, though, Arthur's not jerking off. Not even when Eames has been standing there for a while. He keeps his hand over the crotch of his jeans, occasionally kneading a bit, but he doesn't touch himself. It's maddening, especially since Eames is getting so hot and bothered behind him.

Eventually he just goes for the most direct option. He leans down, pulls one of Arthur's headphones away from his ear, and says, “Sorry, am I supposed to spank you like that?”

Arthur's reaction is even better than he could have hoped for. It's electric—he leaps up, twisting to scramble to his feet, and sends the laptop flying. Instantly he pounces on it where it lands on the floor, snapping it shut, and throws the headphones away from him.

“Eames!” he says hoarsely. He looks like he's able to yell, but then he lowers his head and puts his face in his hands, taking a deep breath. Eames wonders fleetingly if he's about to cry. Then he straightens up again and says weakly, “You almost gave me a heart attack, asshole!”

“Sorry,” says Eames, grinning, not really sorry at all now that it appears Arthur's okay. “I was enjoying the show.”

Arthur's ears turn pink. “Fuck off.”

“It's just porn, Arthur. We all watch porn.”

“Well,” says Arthur, picking up the laptop off the floor, “I don't.”

“Bollocks.”

“I mean ...” Arthur pauses, drags a hand over his face again, and sighs. “Not _gay_ porn,” he says at last, exquisitely embarrassed—practically squirming with it. “I just—I got home early and I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't jerk off, so I was ... curious.”

His face is red, too, now. He flicks a belligerant glance Eames' way, daring him to make something of this. Eames raises his eyebrows.

“You've _never_ wanked off to gay porn before,” he says skeptically.

In answer, Arthur opens the laptop again. The video is paused. He minimizes it, then pulls up a folder, types in a password, and swivels it to face Eames. It's a folder full of downloaded porn flicks, naturally, not a lot but a tidy little collection; and it's all straight porn. Straight, except for the lonely little gay flick at the bottom.

“You're joking,” says Eames. Arthur shakes his head. “You're telling me that when you thought you'd maybe like to give being gay a try, you started by picking up someone who'd fuck you? You didn't indulge your curiosity a little? Light some candles, run a bubble bath, explore your burgeoning sexuality?”

Arthur snaps the laptop shut and says, in a voice that's suddenly rough like he's swallowed broken glass, “I didn't want to like it.”

“Oh,” says Eames. He hesitates. “Didn't you?”

“No,” Arthur says dully. “I just hated myself enough to do it again.” He drags a hand through his hair, looking tired and unhappy. “I hated it till I met you.”

Eames preens a bit at that, but only until Arthur gives a low, shaky laugh and said, “I still don't want to like it. I like being with you, Eames, really, I do, but this is ruining my life.”

Every once in awhile Eames gains a flash of insight into Arthur's life and gets it, for that one moment. For a second he sees how Arthur is so stressed-out that he can't eat regularly or sleep at night unless Eames is there to help him relax; and on the same hand, he can see how keeping this secret is even more stressful, leaving him even more wound-up, chasing him right back to Eames every time. Eames realizes he could be offended by what Arthur's just said, but he looks so visibly tortured that it sort of breaks Eames' heart for a second.

“Well,” he says, after a pause, “at least don't be watching that rubbish. Watch something good if you're going to get into gay porn.”

Arthur cracks a smile. Eames flops onto the couch, taking up the same position Arthur was in before; back to the armrest, legs stretched out. He pats the space between his legs and Arthur goes warily, settling down between Eames' thighs. Eames wraps both arms around his waist and pulls him up snug against Eames' body, and Arthur relaxes in degrees against Eames' chest.

With the laptop in Arthur's lap, Eames has to look over Arthur's shoulder to be able to type, but he's soon able to track down a video he likes. He settles in comfortably, while Arthur just slumps against him and rests a hand on his own stomach. Eames leaves an arm draped around him, rests his hand on top of Arthur's and leaves it there.

It's the heat of Arthur between his legs more than the video that gets his blood stirring. He shifts ever so slightly, as if getting more comfortable, and at the same time letting Arthur feel how hard he is, just in case he feels inclined to do anything about that. Arthur doesn't, apparently. But he shifts once or twice, too, his ass in those jeans rubbing right against Eames' erection.

When Eames can't bear it anymore, he takes his hand away from Arthur's and instead slides it under the waistband of Arthur's jeans, his boxer-briefs. Arthur tenses against him, grabbing his wrist as if to arrest his movement, but Eames is already cupping and stroking his cock. His rather limp, uninterested cock.

Eames removes his hand.

“It's just—I can't, Eames,” Arthur says in a rush, awkwardly. “It's two men. It's not attractive. I can't—”

He shifts again, and stops when this brings him back up against Eames' groin. He sighs. “You're enjoying it,” he says.

“I'm enjoying you in my lap,” Eames says. “Don't need the video, do I?” He slides his palm down over Arthur's jeans and rubs between his legs. “Look, why don't you stop thinking about them, yeah, and start thinking about me doing that to you?”

Arthur stirs a little at that. With a smile, Eames goes on rubbing.

“You'd like that?” he says huskily. “You'd like me to sink my cock into you nice and slow like that, wouldn't you?”

He deftly unzips Arthur's fly one-handed and slips a hand back into his briefs. This time Arthur's cock gives an interested twitch. Encouraged, Eames starts stroking.

“I think you do want that,” he says, pitching his voice low so that Arthur can feel the rumble in his chest. “I think you want me to hold you down and put my cock in you, slow and gentle like that, fuck you nice and shallow till you're squirming and biting your lip to keep yourself from begging me to fuck you harder, make you feel it. You'd want me balls-deep inside you, pounding your tight arse till you scream. You wouldn't beg like him, though.”

Arthur's head tips back slowly, as if unconsciously, until it's resting on Eames' shoulder. He's definitely hard now. His ears are flushed red and he's resolutely silent. Eames withdraws his hand, licks each of his fingers wetly, then slides it back in, until he can press the tip of his middle finger behind Arthur's balls. Arthur's back arches; he sucks in a sharp breath and his hips lift off his couch, pressing him back into Eames as he tries to move away from Eames' seeking finger. Eames doesn't enter him, though, just traces little wet circles around Arthur's hole, stroking Arthur's cock with his thumb, until Arthur has settled warily back down, panting. Then Eames takes his finger away, starts stroking again, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the head, and all the while keeping up his rumbling commentary.

“He's on top now. D'you see that, kitten? One of these days you and I are going to do that. I'm going to pull out and make you get on top of me and fuck yourself on my cock if you want it so bad. And you'd be starved for it, wouldn't you, you'd start riding me just like that. I don't think you'd be slow like him, though, I think you'd want it so bad you'd be bouncing on my cock in no time ...”

“Oh, fuck,” Arthur whispers, arching again, and Eames feels the warm spill of Arthur's come in his palm.

He pulls his hand away and wipes it off on his own jeans, enjoying the effect he's had on Arthur. A little surprising he should come when he did, since he'd turned shy the last time Eames tried to put him on top. Maybe switching halfway through is the best way to introduce Arthur to riding him without Arthur having another mini-crisis. Eames closes the laptop, lies back comfortably and watches Arthur's chest rise and fall.

When Arthur finally takes a deep breath and speaks, it's not what Eames expects to hear.

“I'm sorry.” His voice is deep and ragged after his orgasm. “For what I said earlier, about you ... ruining my life. That was ... really awful. I didn't mean it to come out the way it did.”

“I know what you meant,” says Eames. “It's alright.”

“I'd be in the nut-house if not for you,” Arthur says, exhausted enough to be candid. “And your massages.”

“And my cock,” says Eames, rolling his hips pointedly.

“And your cock,” says Arthur, in tones of long-suffering.

“Especially my cock.”

“Don't push it,” Arthur warns wryly.

They sit there for another few minutes. Eames' cock throbs in his pants but he senses he should stay still for the time being. Eventually Arthur stirs, sighs again. It's almost three o'clock in the morning.

“You want to get in the shower with me?” he asks.

“Always,” says Eames. “What time do you have to be up tomorrow?”

“Not till nine or so. What about you?”

“I've got nowhere better to be,” says Eames honestly.

When they're in the bathroom, Arthur turns around and unbuckles Eames' pants stiffly, pushing them off his hips for him so that his cock is freed.

“I can blow you, if you want,” he says, obviously thinking Eames expects some compensation.

Eames entertains the notion briefly. “That's alright.”

Arthur gives a low little laugh. “What, because I'm terrible at blowjobs?”

“No.” Eames wraps his hands around Arthur's narrow hips and kisses him. Gently, he teases, “You'd probably fall asleep halfway through.” Arthur smiles lopsidedly, not denying it.

They get in, and the water is as deliciously hot as ever. Arthur stands there, drowsing, while Eames soaps and washes him, absently rocking himself against Arthur from behind. Arthur doesn't resist when Eames backs him out of the water spray. He pumps into his own fist a few times and, at long last, comes in white spurts onto the small of Arthur's back. He stands there for a minute, watching his come slide slowly between Arthur's cheeks.

“I can feel that,” Arthur says hoarsely, with an attempt at disapproval.

“Good. You're meant to.” Eames grabs a cloth and starts wiping him off. He soaps himself swiftly afterward and turns the shower off.

Once they're in bed, with the lights switched off so they can sleep, Arthur says sleepily, “I missed you this week.”

“Yeah?” says Eames. “None of your coworkers was willing to fuck you to sleep?”

“Well, yeah,” says Arthur, shrugging, “but he couldn't get the hang of the whole reach-around thing and he wouldn't swallow, it was kind of a let-down.”

Eames shoves him and Arthur laughs—actually laughs, the corners of his eyes creasing and his dimples showing in the dim light from the window. Eames' heart gives a sharp throb all of a sudden—a feeling he decisively pushes away.

“I don't think you realize how lovely you are when you're actually relaxed,” he says. Arthur frowns.

“Maybe I'm just too tired to be mean to you.”

“No, I don't think so.” Eames pokes him in the stomach. “I think you _like_ me, Arthur.”

Arthur writhes, huffing. “What are you, five?” he demands, and in answer Eames has to lean over, push him onto his back and kiss him.

Arthur pushes him off. Slightly stung, Eames retreats a bit.

After a short silence, Arthur says, “You should be with someone who's nice to you all the time.”

“You're running at about seventy percent right now. It's a real improvement.”

“No,” Arthur says. “I'm—overworked and tired all the time and I tell you you're—ruining my life, Jesus—and half the time I don't even get home from work until two in the morning and I don't see you. I can't go out with you in public or ever introduce you to the people I know. You're a good person, Eames, you should be with someone ... else.”

Eames strokes a hand down Arthur's side several times under the covers until he thinks of something to say. “Maybe I'm just here for the big-screen TV.”

Arthur snorts softly and falls quiet again. Then he says, “That must be it.”

“My mum and little sister are flying in next week,” Eames says, after another minute has passed and he can tell Arthur's still awake. “You asked for the Thursday evening off, right?”

“Oh. Yeah, I did.”

Arthur rubs at his nose, frowning, and Eames knows something has disquieted him. He doesn't surrender it for a few minutes, though. Eames waits.

At last, Arthur asks, “What if your mom doesn't like me?”

“Tell her what you do for a living and you'll be fine.”

“She likes analysts?”

“She likes hard workers. What do you care what my mum thinks, anyway?”

“I don't know,” says Arthur. He scratches at his nose again, self-conscious, and looks down. “Seemed important to you.”

Thie words are like a punch to the gut. Eames suddenly wonders, for the first time, when and how he and Arthur, of all people, ended up in an actual relationship. And he wonders—how could he have ever been so blind as to miss it completely?

&  
 _May_  


The night before the wedding, Eames is lying in bed with Arthur again, having just massaged away all his stress from work, unable to believe that Arthur has never been to a Yankees game.

“I thought every New Yorker had been to see the Yankees,” Eames says.

Arthur says, “I'm not even—I'm from LA, I don't even like baseball,” to which Eames prods him in the ribs, right where Arthur is ticklish, to make him growl.

“Well, I'll have to take you to a game, won't I? You can't be a New Yorker if you eat alone and aren't afraid of pigeons but have never seen a Yankees game. It's against the law.”

“The law, huh,” Arthur says dryly, starting to smile. “What if they put a kiss cam or something on us?”

It's a joke, maybe, or a wry challenge. He just wants to see what Eames will say; and what Eames says is, “I doubt the Americans would jump to the conclusion that the two men sitting together are lovers.”

“I don't know,” Arthur said, and his smile widens, so that his eyes crinkle and his dimples show and Eames' stomach gives a sickening swoop. “You look pretty smitten to me.”

—And now Eames is watching him flee while the other people around him scramble to help pick up dropped hor d'ouevres, not knowing whether to join them or to give chase. He does neither. He's still not sure what just happened.

“Eames, go,” Mal is saying at his side, her face shining anxiously, “go after him, go—”

Her words reach him all at once and Eames snaps out of it. He runs.

“Arthur!” he shouts once he's on the street. “ _Arthur!_ ”

Arthur's already long gone, though, panicked and humiliated, and Eames just stares around him, forcing away Arthur's last words so that they won't hurt him, not just yet—

He's fucked up, and he's fucked up so horribly, so awfully, so irreparably he thinks he'll throw up. Because Arthur isn't just throwing one of his tantrums. He won't come slinking back to Eames in a week's time and ask to be forgiven. Arthur's worst fears have come true and it's Eames' fault and he's suddenly so terrified of what Arthur might do to himself—the possibilities are bleak and limitless.

Arthur's come so far, gotten _so close_ to being happy, and Eames has just destroyed everything by forcing him out of his comfort zone when he was clearly not ready for it. Now he's gone.

“Fuck,” he hears himself saying over and over again, “fuck, fucking _fuck_.”

He's panting, starting to panic himself, when he feels a gentle hand on his arm and turns to see Mal and Dom, and his little sister behind them in her beautiful white dress, worried for him.

“It's okay,” he tells her automatically. “He just had an allergic reaction to something—go back inside, Trish, I'll be there in a second.”

“Okay,” she says doubtfully. She pats his arm as she walks past him.

Once she's gone Eames drags both hands down his face, breathing in and out shakily.

“He's gone,” he says.

“What happened?” Mal asks gently.

“I didn't know. I didn't know you knew each other. He's been so terrified of this happening, and I—”

“But Arthur's not gay,” Dom cuts in, “I mean—I'd _know_ if he was, I'm his best friend, I'm—he has a girlfriend, for Christ's sake!”

It clicks. Dom works in finance. Eames drops his hands. “You work with him?”

“I'm his boss.”

Eames has always gotten on well enough with Dom, but right now a sickening hate for Mal's husband surges in him.

“Call him,” he demands. “Call him right now. He won't pick up if it's me and you're the only one he fucking listens to, aren't you. He's at your every beck and call and you don't even realize how stressed out he is or how lonely and fucked-up—”

“ _Eames_ ,” Mal quells him. Dom eyes Eames resentfully, but after a moment he takes out his phone and presses a few buttons.

In another few seconds he's shaking his head, snapping the phone shut.

“Voicemail. His phone is off.”

Of course, Arthur had turned off his phone for the wedding. On this one occasion, he'd devoted his attention to what was going on with Eames. Somehow that's what really makes it sink in for Eames. For once in his entire working life, Arthur turned off his phone.

He stands there numbly. He can't tell them he thinks Arthur is going to hurt himself. He has nothing to base that on anyway except a few self-deprecating jokes—like _I'd have thrown myself in front of a train by now if it wasn't for you._ He just can't believe he let this happen. He's the only person in the world Arthur can really be himself with, and he did this to him.

“He doesn't have a girlfriend,” he tells Dom dully. “We've been seeing each other for seven months. And he's so deep in the closet he can't even call it a relationship, but he was doing really well, he was feeling so much better, and now ...”

_If you ever touch me again, I'll kill you._

The words are like a lance through his fucking guts.

He turns away, face twisting, and barks out a harsh little laugh. “I can't believe I let him do this,” he says, voice rough, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I can't believe he's pulling this shit. I can't believe—” But his throat closes up and he can't go on.

Mal squeezes his arm gently.

“Give him time,” she says.

“No. He's always going to be like this,” Eames says, staring blankly at the street. He can still feel the way Arthur shoved him away, like he was diseased, and the sheer panicky _hatred_ in his eyes when Eames tried to go after him. “He's never going to get better. I thought I could help him be happy, but he's never going to be. Not while he's the way he is.”

“He should've told me,” Dom mutters, still trying to absorb this. “I could have helped him. I can't believe he never told me.”

Eames' own panic is starting to seep away into a constant, hot, visceral throb. He's lost Arthur. Arthur will never come back from this. And even if he does, Eames can't take him back. He's made Arthur worse, not better. And he can't keep doing this to himself. He made a promise to Arthur that they'd be over the next time he did something like this. So it's over. They're done.

Just—

He can't quite believe that he'll never bring Arthur coffee in bed again. Never get to see that wry dimpled smile that Arthur seems to reserve just for him. Never have the best sex of Eames' life again. Never get to touch and taste and kiss Arthur just to feel the tension bleed out of him like Eames is the only thing he's ever needed.

He promised himself he'd never let himself be heartbroken like this again. But that's the only word he has for it. He tried to keep Arthur at arm's length and he failed.

He goes through the rest of the night—dancing with his sister, catching up with family—in a zombie-like daze. He hears from Dom that Arthur sent him a rushed message saying he won't be in to work for a while. By the time Eames gets home, he thinks he knows what's going to happen next. Dom won't fire Arthur over this, of course, no matter what Arthur thinks; but Arthur will surely quit, unable to handle the thought of his boss knowing his awful secret. He'll leave his job, and then, probably, he'll leave New York altogether, just to get away from them ( _from Eames_ ).

And that's what gives Eames an idea. Maybe he's been in New York for too long, too. Maybe it's time for a change.

He's glad he has no photos of Arthur, so that it can be a clean break.

&  
 _February_  


Eames has to cut a trip short when he gets a text from a teacher he knows, asking him to work the whole week for her due to a family crisis. It's a great opportunity for him—a week of income with the possibility of more; and he knows and likes the students. It just means leaving Long Island on Sunday, instead of Monday.

To comfort himself, he decides to go over to Arthur's that night. He's in the mood for a nice rough fuck. He texts ahead, just a brief _home early, be at ur place soon_ , and doesn't get a reply. That means he's playing Russian roulette once he gets into the elevator. Arthur could be entertaining someone. Not likely, but it's happened. In that case he reckons the college roommates card will do; it drives Arthur mad but at least he can be associated with Eames with his dignity intact.

Once he's on the 24th floor, just a few steps away from Arthur's door, he hears a violent crash. Eames grabs the key and enters as quickly as he can.

He skids to a halt in the kitchen doorway. Arthur's kneeling on all fours amidst a truly impressive array of shattered glass and porcelain. There are smudges of blood on the floor around him. The cupboard doors have all been flung wide open and chips of glass lightly spray the countertops beneath them. As Eames watches, gaping, Arthur sits back and wraps his arms around himself, staring at the mess, rocking back and forth slightly and letting out harsh, grating sobs through his teeth. He doesn't appear to even see Eames.

“Arthur,” Eames says, stunned, not sure what's happened here. He steps forward tentatively, crouches down when Arthur doesn't stop him. “Hey, pet, look at me. You're bleeding on yourself.”

“Go away,” Arthur says in a very low, choked voice.

“Look at me, Arthur,” Eames repeats, reaching for him. Something's not right.

“Go—away,” Arthur repeats rigidly. “Don't touch— _don't!_ —”

He lashes out as soon as Eames touches him, like a wild animal, but it's easy to grab onto his wrists. Eames hangs on grimly as Arthur thrashes to free himself.

When he finally goes limp in defeat, he takes a few deep breaths and blinks several times. Then he says, sounding surprised, “Eames.”

“Yeah.”

“You're here.”

“Yeah, I'm here.” Close up, Eames can see that it's his palms bleeding—not his wrists, thank goodness. Eames takes one of his hands by the wrist and holds it palm-up for a better look, and Arthur just kneels there, exhausted, and docilely lets him touch and probe. He doesn't even wince when Eames pries little slivers of glass out of his flesh, making more blood ooze out. “What've you done to yourself, Arthur?” he murmurs, taking the other hand.

“I just wanted a glass of water.” Arthur's voice hitches. “But I couldn't hold the glass.”

Eames can see why. His hands are shaking badly. That's not a good sign. It means Arthur's either taken something or has been awake for much longer than is healthy.

“You dropped the glass and then decided to throw all your dishes on the floor?” Eames says.

Arthur curls up around a massive, crippling yawn, which answers the previous question. His whole body shakes and then sags visibly when it's over.

“I'm so fucking tired, Eames,” he croaks.

“I can see that,” Eames says, letting go of his hand.

“My boss sent me home,” Arthur says, his voice rising in agitation. “The fucking first-year associate kept catching mistakes I'd made. So I went home and I tried to work from here but the computer keeps saying this ... awful, disgusting shit ... I think I'm seeing things.”

He blinks and a tear falls from his eyelashes, which is funny because he doesn't notice or even appear to be crying. Maybe his body is too exhausted to cry beyond producing tears. His eyes are glassy and glazed.

“I just wanted water,” he says, dazed, childlike.

“But you dropped the glass ...”

“I'm so sick of everything I touch going to shit,” Arthur mumbles.

“... and then you smashed the dishes?” Eames says, trying to make sure he has this in the right order.

Arthur's head lolls in a nod. Another tear escapes. “Yeah.”

“Well,” Eames says gently, “that was silly, wasn't it.”

Arthur lifts his head, his gaze suddenly sharp with fresh awareness. “What are you even doing here?”

“Cut my trip off. I texted you,” Eames says.

“I didn't get it.” Arthur's eyes narrow.

“Well, never mind. Come on.” Eames takes one of his hands, tries to guide him to his feet. “Let's clean you up.”

Arthur resists. “Go home. I don't need you.”

“I'm just trying to help.”

“I don't need your fucking help!” Arthur shouts, lashing out at him again. “Fuck off, Eames, why don't you ever just fuck _off_ —”

Eames backs out of the kitchen and takes a moment to collect.

He could leave. This isn't his problem. He wasn't even supposed to be here tonight.

He takes a deep breath.

Then he walks to the bathroom, rummages around in the cupboards under the sink until he locates a first-aid kit that's never been opened before. He checks its contents quickly, runs some hot water and soaks a hand-towel.

Arthur's standing when Eames returns to the kitchen, gripping the counter and staring at the remnants of his dishes all over the floor without emotion. Eames puts a light hand on his shoulder and says, “Come on.”

He sits Arthur down at the table. He wipes away the blood first, then goes over the cuts with tweezers to extract any tiny shards of glass he might have missed. Arthur doesn't budge or speak except to grunt in pain when Eames disinfects the cuts with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide. None of the wounds is too deep; most are scratches. He puts bandages on the worst ones, and when he's done, Arthur stares at his palms uncomprehendingly.

“What did I do?” he asks himself softly.

“Come on, sleepy,” Eames says cajolingly, helping him up. “Let's get you in your pyjamas.”

He hasn't seen this soft side of himself in a long time. Maybe it's been in hiding; not gone for good like he'd thought. Arthur follows him like a tame little lamb, just stands there while Eames peels him out of his clothes and helps him into his pyjamas.

“Why are you doing this?” Arthur asks him wearily when Eames tucks him into bed. “Why did you stay?”

“Close your eyes and relax,” Eames says instead of answering. Arthur just looks at him, so Eames switches off the lamp. He walks out and shuts the door.

He considers. He could leave now.

Arthur's laptop is open, running but powered-down on the couch. When Eames touches the trackpad, it opens to a locked screen. He shuts it down and wonders what exactly Arthur saw on the laptop screen that troubled him so badly. Hallucinations are a byproduct of sleep deprivation. The thought of Arthur's computer mocking his sexuality is sort of funny, in an awful way. Maybe that was it. Maybe something worse. He won't know.

In the kitchen he has to locate Arthur's broom and dustpan in order to sweep up the mess. He finds that three-quarters of Arthur's drinking glasses and all of his plates are a total write-off, but the bowls and coffee mugs, on the higher shelves, have been spared. It's shocking how much there is on the floor—Eames only has two or three plates himself, and Arthur doesn't exactly host dinner parties; but he would buy entire matching sets, wouldn't he? Once the broken dishes are swept up, Eames tackles the bloodstains with a washcloth. The kitchen looks virtually normal once he's done.

He came here for sex; the sort of violent, aggressive sex that he and Arthur typically enjoy. He didn't intend to wind up coddling Arthur into going to sleep and then cleaning up his messes. If Arthur's crazy, Eames must be even crazier.

He sighs, and heads into the bedroom. There will definitely be no sex tonight. And there's no point going home—it's freezing outside, and he's tired, too.

Arthur is completely unconscious in the bed, lying on his side, mouth slightly ajar. Eames watches him closely while stripping down to his boxers. Funny how he's so normal-looking in sleep. He wonders how long it's been since Arthur last slept. Too long, obviously; longer than Eames has ever seen him go.

When he crawls under the sheets and switches the lamp off, he hears Arthur stir, and then Arthur is nuzzling against him, attracted to the warmth of his body.

“Hey,” Arthur slurs drowsily, pressing his face into Eames' shoulder. “You stayed.”

It doesn't mean anything. He's probably still asleep, in fact. Eames hesitates. Then he rolls over to face Arthur and wraps an arm around him carefully. Arthur shifts into his arms willingly, nestling into him like a baby animal, and exhaling through his nose in a contented little sound. It's the first time they've ever done anything like cuddling. Arthur is warm and soft; lax and trusting in Eames' arms. It feels nice. He could get used to this.

“'Course I stayed,” Eames says at last. Arthur is unreachable again, though, completely limp against Eames and breathing evenly.

He's asleep and he didn't need sex, or a massage, or any form of orgasm. He's been awake for days and all he needed in the end, apparently, was for Eames to be there.

Like magic.

In the morning Eames cracks open an eyelid when the light is flicked on. Arthur's standing there, hair damp from the shower, dressed for work and knotting a tie. He looks crisp and professional, a total transformation from last night. He catches Eames' eye in the mirror.

“Hey,” he says.

Not, _wake up and get out of my apartment now_ , Eames thinks. Amazing. He checks the clock. Twenty more minutes before he has to get up and start getting ready, too. He lets his head flop back onto the pillow.

Arthur finishes the tie and gives it a tug. Evidently satisfied, he turns around.

“I'm going to work,” he says. He seems slightly uncomfortable. “I'll—I'll see you later? Tonight, maybe?”

“Yeah, sure,” Eames mumbles, closing his eyes.

He doesn't hear Arthur move. After another few moments, Arthur speaks again.

“I slept for six hours.”

It's not a thank-you, but it's about as close as Arthur gets. Six whole hours is a lot of sleep, for Arthur. Eames opens one eye again and offers him a smile which Arthur tentatively returns, hinting at a dimple.

“I'm glad you stayed over,” he says, and switches off the light. “Bye.”

At that moment Eames is glad he stayed over, too.

&  
&  
&  
 _June_  


Arthur is backsliding.

Eames tries to hold out hope, but it's fading fast and it feels awful. They've been living together a year now and they were finally smoothing out some of the last few kinks, actually getting pretty good at this whole committed relationship thing. And now Arthur's sliding right back to square one. For the past two weeks he hasn't once gotten home before midnight, and he's been uncommunicative and grouchy. They had sex three times last week and they've had one quickie this week; and their average is six times a week at least.

Now Eames has had a bad day, and he's the kind of person who appreciates a bit of coddling after a bad day. Another teacher at school, a man he respects as a sort of mentor, visited him after class to tell him to stop being nice to his students. Apparently, there's more than a few girls tittering over Eames when they're supposed to be learning history, trying to come up with ways to access his Facebook or get his mobile number.

“It happens, it's not your fault,” the other teacher says. “You're young and good-looking, and I know it's easy to use your age to develop a rapport with the students. But it's got to stop. You can't be their friend. It just takes one sexual harassment claim, and the school board will throw you to the wolves.”

It's a real blow, because Eames considers himself to be pretty stern, actually. Even though it's true he and his students have a rapport, it's not because he's trying to be their friend—it's because he's consistent and he respects them. He sits on his desk to teach, at a nice comfortable remove from them. It's the accent that's his undoing, he decides, and he can't do much about that.

It's not his fault, but it still feels like he's somehow in trouble, and he wishes, just this one night, that Arthur would come home at a reasonable time and kiss him and tell him not to worry about it. So of course Arthur doesn't.

_Eames 9:43pm come home!!!_

_Arthur 10:04pm Srry working late._

Arthur's brother calls around eleven and Eames reports that he's working late again. He stresses the _again_ , hoping for a little commiseration, but David just laughs and says, “Yeah, sounds like Arthur.”

He and Eames have had a few halting conversations over the phone when Arthur isn't around. He sounds almost exactly like Arthur, which is weird, but he's friendlier, easy to talk to. He's warmed up to Eames now that he's evidently past the strangeness of talking with his older brother's boyfriend, and suddenly remembering something from a long time ago, Eames wants to take advantage of that.

“Hey—did Arthur really teach you to surf when you were younger?”

David laughs again. His laugh is very different from Arthur's, warm and lighthearted like it doesn't cost him anything to let another person hear it. “Yeah, he did. I don't think you could get him on a surfboard now if you paid him.”

“Damn,” Eames sighs. “I'd love a picture of that.”

“I got all the family photo albums after our dad died. Arthur didn't want any. I could send you one if you like.”

“I would love that,” Eames says, surprised.

“Sure. Just remind what your apartment number is?”

My apartment number, Eames thinks after he's hung up. Not Arthur's. Mine now, too.

When the phone gives its long-distance ring again half an hour later, Eames assumes it's David again; but checking the screen, he recognizes a Canadian area code. Mystified, and wondering if it might be an old friend from university, he mutes the TV and answers it. “Hello?”

“Hi.” That soft voice is too familiar. “Eames?”

Eames' brain momentarily abandons him, and he blurts out, “Why are you calling me?”

“I've just been thinking about you ...”

“I mean,” Eames cuts him off harshly, “why the hell are you calling me on my boyfriend's phone, Henri?”

“Oh,” Henri says, faltering. “This is the number your sister gave me. I didn't know ...”

“Which one?”

“Amy.”

Of course. He can never figure out her intentions. She might have been doing him a favour, not giving his ex-boyfriend a mobile number—Eames had explicitly changed the old number to avoid this. She might have been gambling on the risk that Arthur would answer, to scare Henri off. Or maybe she intended for Henri to spook Arthur, make him think he has competition for Eames. Because Arthur _would_ be spooked, of course. Eames has no idea.

“I don't want to talk to you,” he says, because he knows the more Henri talks, the more compelled he'll be to listen.

“Just wait,” Henri says, predictably. His French accent is one of the nicer ones Quebec has to offer, not glottal or overpowering. “Please. I'll talk. You just listen.”

Eames says nothing. After a stretch of silence, Henri says quietly, “Amy told me you were seeing someone.”

“Yeah.”

“An investment banker.”

“Yes.”

“I'm happy for you.”

“Good.”

“I'm not seeing anyone,” Henri adds. Eames forces a rough laugh.

“I imagine the dating market isn't so open to people with HIV.”

Henri gives his shy little laugh in return. “You'd be surprised. I'm on treatments, my viral load is almost undetectable... I have next to no chance of passing it on.”

“Oh,” says Eames. “So you just don't tell them. Like you didn't tell me.”

“No, I ... no,” Henri says softly, sadly. “That was a mistake.”

“Yeah, you made a lot of mistakes.”

“I know I did.” Henri's almost whispering.

The front door opens; Eames' heart leaps. Dropping the cordless phone to his side, he calls, “Hey, you're home. You want to watch TV? I got pizza—”

Arthur walks straight past the living room without looking at him and says dully, “I want to be alone, Eames.”

He disappears. A door shuts. A few moments later, Eames hears the treadmill in the guest room start up.

His heart is surging again, not so pleasantly now. This is what Arthur always does when he's in a bad mood; he sequesters himself, not subjecting Eames to his grumpiness. It works for them. He just wishes it didn't have to be tonight.

He reminds himself that Arthur's only been behaving consistently off for two weeks. And the person who made him so headshy in the first place is on the phone, gripped loosely in his right hand. He lifts it.

“You still there?”

“Yes,” says Henri.

“What do you want?”

“An opportunity to talk. I'll be in New York City this weekend. For work.”

“I wasn't aware New York had a shortage of nurses.”

“There's a conference.” Henri pauses. “I'd like to meet with you.”

“And say what? Give me a preview.”

Henri's natural quietness makes him hard to hear over the phone, but there's no mistaking when he says, “I want to be with you again.”

“You cheated on me.” Eames' throat aches. “You could have—”

“You were willing to work it out before. You were going to help me with the treatments, and ...”

“I changed my mind,” says Eames. “I realized what an idiot I was trying to salvage our relationship just because I didn't want those seven years to have been a waste. But they were.”

“Not to me.”

“You—” There's nothing Eames can say that won't sound melodramatic. _You broke my heart. You betrayed my trust. You made me almost give up on ever loving someone again._

“I want a chance to fix my mistakes. A fair chance. And if this, this investment banker, if you still think he's better for you afterward, then I can move on.”

“He is better for me. He's never cheated on me.”

“Let's just talk,” says Henri. “As friends. We'll just catch up. You don't have to say anything yet. I just want the chance to change your mind.”

Seven years is a very long time to love somebody, Eames thinks. He doesn't even know where this thing between him and Arthur is going in the long run. He doesn't even know if Arthur _likes_ him anymore, or if he's gotten better, decided he doesn't need Eames, wants his life to be uncomplicated again.

“Maybe,” Eames says, and he hangs up.

When he goes to bed an hour later, the treadmill is still going. He doesn't hear Arthur come to bed that night.

 

&  
The next day is Friday. Arthur is gone before Eames gets up and still not home when Eames goes to bed. At three AM Eames hears the shower running, and a few minutes later Arthur hits the mattress at his side and is out like a light.

Eames is up by nine o'clock the next morning, showered and bright-eyed by the time Arthur shows signs of stirring. Eames sits on the edge of the bed.

“Coffee?”

Arthur nods mutely. Eames sets the mug down on the bedside table and Arthur sits up with a relieved sigh. He sips at it with his eyes half-closed.

“Thanks,” he says, reviving slowly.

Eames just watches him for a bit. At first, absorbed in his coffee raptures, Arthur doesn't notice; then he blinks and says, “What.”

“Just thinking,” Eames says. Henri wants him to be at a restaurant on 89th St. at twelve o'clock for lunch. Eames honestly doesn't know if he wants to go.

“Thinking what?” Arthur asks curiously.

“Wondering if you're as flexible as I recall,” says Eames. “Trying to picture you with your knees up round your ears.”

“Pervert,” Arthur says, eyes half-closing again. Eames smiles.

“Do you have to work today?”

“No.” Arthur sighs. “I'm sorry I haven't seen you in like ... days. But I finished my pitchbook last night, so.”

“What pitchbook?”

“The pitchbook I've been busting my ass on for two weeks,” says Arthur, opening his eyes. “I thought I told you.” His brow furrows. “Didn't you wonder why I wasn't home till after midnight every night?”

“I—”

Eames falters. Come to think of it, maybe Arthur did tell him there was a big project of some kind.

Shamefaced, he says, “I thought you were backsliding.”

Arthur groans. “The day I start backsliding, you should consider it your duty to push me in front of a train.”

“Or gradually shag you into better habits. That seemed to work before.”

Arthur snorts, rolling his eyes. “Anyway,” he says, “I told my boss I'm not doing any more projects that big on such a tight deadline. So my hours should go back to normal this week.”

“Thank God,” Eames says earnestly, with a rush of real relief. Arthur tilts his head quizzically, and Eames says, “I've just really missed you.”

Arthur takes a last sip of coffee and sets it down. Thoughtfully, he says, “You know, I'm pretty flexible.”

Eames pounces on him right away, his pulse thrumming with want, and pulls Arthur down onto his back. Arthur slings one leg over his shoulder easily; then Eames pats the other. Arthur sighs, but he puts his other leg over Eames' shoulder, too. They're both in their boxers: Eames bears down a bit and rolls his clothed groin against Arthur's in a pantomime of fucking.

“Alright?”

“Fine,” says Arthur, trying to sound collected but already hard just from this.

“How about ...” Eames leans down lower, until his nose is touching Arthur's and their lips are brushing, and Arthur bends for him, incredibly. “... if I kiss you?”

Already Arthur's cheeks are turning pink, but he says in a strained voice, “Still breathing.”

Eames sits back. Arthur takes a few quick breaths.

“Do you trust me?” Eames asks.

“Is that a trick question?”

“No. It's a simple one.”

Arthur eyes him narrowly, but says, “Yes, I trust you.”

“Alright then.” Eames drags Arthur's boxers off him without ceremony, followed by his own. While he's doing this Arthur is fumbling in the bedside table drawer, pulling out lube and a condom—Arthur hates making a mess first thing in the morning. Once Arthur's knees are on his shoulders again, Eames slicks two fingers and presses both inside Arthur at once, making his face go tight and his gaze flit away. He leans down and kisses Arthur while he does this, partly to distract him, partly to gauge how long he can hold this position before he suffocates. When Arthur starts panting and pushes at him, Eames leans back again, lets him take a couple gulps of air.

“Alright,” Eames says, taking his fingers away. He puts the condom on quickly, sitting back on his heels, then leans forward and plants his hands on the mattress on either side of Arthur's head. “You can tell me to stop,” he says, and then he pushes in to where he's made Arthur wet and open for him. He slides all the way in, one long steady push, and holds himself there. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut against the strain, breathes through it. Then he nods.

He likes to push himself, which is a good thing, because Eames loves to push him too. He starts fucking Arthur properly right away, pressing down to make him bend a bit more, and Arthur takes this easily. He looks lovely—flushed all the way up his chest, hair in disarray—and he gulps swiftly when Eames leans far enough down to kiss him, folding him just about in half.

“Okay,” Arthur says to some unasked question, breathing through his teeth. “I can take it.”

“Good boy,” Eames says, and he starts a quick, rough rhythm. Arthur tips his head back, breathing hard, stubborn as ever.

It's when Eames kisses him that he starts struggling. Eames knows it, and plunders his mouth aggressively, not giving him a window to breathe. When he stops, Arthur's face is flushed, but he still won't tap out, he's still meeting Eames' eyes like this is some kind of challenge, so Eames kisses him again.

He could do this all day, fuck and kiss and bite Arthur, and he starts to lose himself in it until abruptly Arthur is pushing at his chest a bit, saying breathlessly, “Eames— _Eames_ —”

Eames eases back a bit, just enough to let Arthur snatch some air, thrusting into him steadily. “Still trust me?” he asks.

Arthur locks eyes with him again. His eyes are watering, his face flushed red. He clenches his jaw and nods.

Eames leans close again, slides his thumb over Arthur's neck and starts pressing down. Arthur grabs at his arm, clutching, fighting open-mouthed for air; and with his other hand Eames reaches down and strokes Arthur's leaking cock a few times, roughly. Underneath him Arthur's whole body snaps taut in the grip of his climax; the only sound he makes is a strangled gasping noise.

Eames takes his hand away to let him breathe, and in the next second he's coming, too, helplessly compelled by the way Arthur's body shakes apart underneath him. It's amazing, it's always amazing with Arthur; there's never been anything better than this. A lot has changed in a year, but this feeling hasn't.

He slumps there, and he hasn't even recovered before Arthur shoves him off.

“What the fuck was that?” he gasps.

“Unless I'm mistaken,” Eames says, drawing himself up, “ _that_ was the best orgasm of your entire life.”

Arthur stares at him, rubbing at his throat, still catching his breath.

“You said you trusted me,” Eames reminds him.

“Jesus,” Arthur says dazedly. He shakes his head briskly, like a dog. He's trying to pull on a stern expression, but the corner of his mouth is starting to twitch. “Well, I didn't know we were playing erotic asphyxiation chicken, did I?”

“It wasn't chicken,” Eames protests. He ties off the condom and throws it at the trash bin. “I knew what I was doing. I wouldn't suffocate you for real.”

Arthur _hmmph_ s, wiping his belly off with Eames' boxers so he can flop down facing the wall. After a few seconds he admits grudgingly, “It was a pretty good orgasm.”

Eames stretches out behind him, cuddling up close and skating his fingers up and down Arthur's stomach. “'Pretty good'? Not 'earth-shattering'?”

Arthur elbows him, not with real malice. “I like to give you something to aspire towards.”

“You just can't admit that I rocked your world.”

Arthur elbows him again, huffing when Eames just squeezes him tighter. It's nice, for a minute; everything is back to normal, they're good, everything is good. They cool off together, and Arthur lets Eames stay like that, wrapped around him.

“David's going to send us a photo album,” Eames says, remembering. “A photo album ... full of photos of _you_.”

“Ugh.” Arthur drags one of the sheets over his head. “Stop talking to my brother. It's so weird.”

“I had a bad day on Thursday.”

“Poor you,” says Arthur, with typical lack of sympathy.

“My ex-boyfriend called me. He wants to see me. Today.”

Arthur is silent under the sheet. Then, slowly, he starts to roll away. Eames tightens his grip.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Arthur echoes. He pulls the sheet down, though he's still looking at the wall, rather than Eames. “I didn't know there was an ex-boyfriend.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you going to see him?”

“I don't think so.”

“Maybe you should,” says Arthur.

“No,” says Eames. “I don't think I will.”

Arthur seems put out by this, strangely, but Eames can't figure out what's wrong. He gives Arthur a little squeeze, trying to convey reassurance without words.

At last, Arthur says carefully, “Well ... I thought you and I could do something today.”

“What?”

“If you want to—go for a walk in Central Park?”

“Arthur,” says Eames sincerely. “I'd love that.”

“But if you want to meet your boyfriend—”

“ _Arthur_ ,” Eames cuts him off. “ _You_ 're my boyfriend.”

Arthur gives a soft little snort, as if amused. “Oh yeah.”

“Oh, yeah,” Eames mocks. Arthur's amusement fades rapidly, though, and to distract him, Eames nips his earlobe and says, “Some of my students are in love with me.”

That gets Arthur's attention. He stirs and demands hotly, “What? Who?” He pauses. “Why?”

Eames jabs him in the stomach from behind. “Well, why do _you_ love me?”

“Because you're an asshole, like me,” Arthur says, without missing a beat.

There's a loaded pause. Eames doesn't say anything. Arthur's ears turn slowly pink as he realizes what he's said.

“You're an asshole,” he repeats softly, glaring at the wall.

Eames kisses the back of his neck. “I know.”

 

&  
It's like they've turned the clock back fifteen months, walking down Central Park West together. Arthur's quiet the whole way there. When they enter the park, it's full of people—it's that hectic time of year when the tourists have started arriving in flocks but the locals haven't yet left town on their vacations—and Arthur keeps himself close to Eames' side. Eames can't help but wonder how this is going to go. Arthur isn't out at work; maybe he won't want them to be seen.

“It was our anniversary a couple weeks ago,” Arthur breaks the silence between them. He's looking at the ground while he walks.

“Was it?”

“Sort of. We don't really have a solid date. I just figured, since you moved in one year ago, that could be our anniversary. But I missed it because—work.”

“I see,” says Eames. Arthur looks up at the trees, shoving his hands in his pockets. He's wearing a navy blue polo and one of those elusive pairs of jeans that Eames always wants to tear right off him.

“I wanted to get something for you,” he admits awkwardly. “To kind of—commemorate—and I guess also to thank you for sticking around, even though I suck at this—”

“You don't suck.”

“—and I was thinking of getting you a watch,” Arthur goes on. “A nice one. But I couldn't figure out what you'd like. So eventually I called Mal and asked her, and she said I should forget the watch. She said I should get you something that would mean something to you. So I thought of the last time we went for a walk here, when I had to leave for work, and ...”

He stops walking, and Eames does, too. Arthur takes a deep breath and then leans in and kisses Eames. Right there in the middle of Central Park for all of Manhattan to see, Arthur kisses him, and he doesn't half-ass it, either. He even lets Eames slip both arms around him.

People walk past them. The world keeps turning. Arthur stays there.

When he eventually pulls back a bit, he says sheepishly, “Sorry for being a jerk sometimes.”

Eames smiles fondly, stroking his cheek with a thumb. “Let me tell you something, Arthur,” he says, and his heart gives a nervous pang. He's never talked to Arthur about Henri before today. He hopes this is the right thing to say. “My ex was never a jerk. He was always nice to me. He always said the sweetest things. He told me he loved me every day, and he meant it.”

Arthur's gaze drops to the ground. Eames reaches over, touches Arthur's arm gently, and waits for him to look up again. 

“And after all that, he was still fucking around with another man on the side,” he says. “I always know where I stand with you, Arthur. It's one of the things I like about you. You're a grouchy bastard sometimes, but you never lie to me. So don't you worry about being a jerk. I knew who you were when I agreed to move in with you; that's why I said yes. That's why I'm here with you, right now, instead of with him.”

Arthur lifts his head, managing a small lopsided smile.

“Well,” he says after a long pause, shrugging. “No danger of me sleeping with another man, I guess.”

“No, I imagine not,” Eames says, smiling back.

They start walking again. Arthur puts his hands back in his pockets. “So—how about a picnic?”

“That would be perfect.”

“You don't think I'm being cheap? Because I want to take you out to dinner, too, but I thought pretzels would be a good start.”

“It's not cheap. It's perfect.”

“Okay. Good,” Arthur says briskly, veering off toward the nearest vendor. “Pretzels on me, then.”

“Don't forget the lemonade,” Eames calls after him. Arthur flips him the middle finger, and Eames grins.

Some things never do change.

He figures he can live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> You should maybe check out my tumblr if you haven't already. :) http://whiskyrunner.tumblr.com/


End file.
